The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer
Page 49
Chapter 49
The Shot Heard Round the World
Something was forming over Trickstertron's hand. Tricksters swarmed up the behemoth's arm.
As the people of Earth's eyebrows furrowed with curiosity, Trickstertron extended a Trickster-crafted baseball mitt and grabbed the oncoming fireball like a Gold Glove outfielder defending the left field that was the universe.
The fireball sizzled when it hit the glove made of Tricksters, steam hissing off into the emptiness of space, and the conflagration that was to be the death of the universe sputtered out.
Afterwards, Nataraja gave the massive, skull-capped mytho his full attention.
Trickstertron would have smiled with grim satisfaction if it could have, but it was laughing too hard out of the millions of mouths of its millions of parts to do so. Relentless, it continued on, propelled forward by the flapping hawk jutting from its naked butt cheeks.
Nataraja's starlit eyes had gone as cold and lifeless as the space surrounding him. He banged on the bongo, the beat increasing to a frenetic pace, and continued dancing samhara, eyes locked on the fast-approaching Trickstertron. A second fireball began to form in his hand.
Nataraja unleashed pitch of destruction number two. The inferno-ball came in much faster, speeding towards Earth like a blazing comet on a collision course with the Blue Marble.
Trickstertron skidded to a halt on the edge of the Milky Way. The Tricksters began moving, scrambling up and down its arms, forming into . . . a baseball bat.
Trickstertron tapped the bat made of Tricksters upon a nebula that approximated home plate, pointed a finger across the heavens, and brought the bat back behind its shoulder.
The fireball came in like a fastball thrown by Superman, but Trickstertron's swing was true.
There was the unmistakable crack of wood on leather, and after a wondering, wondrous moment, those watching from New Shaolin cheered like it was a walk-off home run to win the Series.
Propelled off Trickstertron's bat, the burning sphere went right back up the middle of the cosmos, streamers of fire trailing in its white-hot wake.
The fireball hit Nataraja right in the star-drawn crotch. There was a thud and a gut-wrenching squishing sound heard by every being in the universe (and felt by the males, who winced in unison).
Nataraja whimpered once, quite un-god-like.
The sound of the drum died away, and the Cosmic Dancer burst into flames. The linked stars that made up his outline flared up bright and red like a billion exploding suns. From Earth, it appeared that the sky—the universe, the entire cosmos—was ablaze.
Those watching from Earth turned away lest they go blind.
After a time, there issued from the sky a hissing sound like water dousing a campfire, and there billowed out a thick fog that covered the length and breadth of the heavens.
But the haze soon cleared, and Nataraja was there. His glowing outline still smoked a bit, but it didn't seem to bother him. He no longer banged his drum, which had vanished, and now simply straddled the universe, his four arms crossed, a stern expression upon his star-sketched face.
Trickstertron rested in stasis. It stared across the firmament at the Lord of the Dance. The two heavenly beings regarded one another, in a celestial Mexican standoff.
Trickstertron still giggled uncontrollably. Nataraja was cool and judging as he appraised the behemoth that had arisen from nowhere to thwart him.
Then Nataraja's starry eyes flashed with . . . mirth.
The Cosmic Dancer's eyes danced with all-too-human laughter, and a stupid, profane grin spread across his sacred, celestial face. Nataraja bent double and held his sides, laughing right along with Trickstertron—laughing at duty, laughing at the Creator gods, laughing at himself, laughing at and laughing with all of sprawling, wondrous Creation.
The two galaxy-sized beings held one another around the shoulders and laughed, laughed, laughed for what seemed like an eternity. Divine metallic tears streamed unabated from their eyes, painting the cosmos with silver streaks of hilarity.
After the frenzy of humor had died down to occasional chuckles and hoots, Nataraja looked down upon the denizens of Earth and the universe with a beatific smile.
(I am Nataraja, and I Dance Creation into and out of Existence. But I have grown tired of Dancing around in circles. From now on, the denizens of the Worlds may do what they will, for I shall no longer be Guardian of the Wheel of Birth and Death. And now I shall retire in order to meditate until the natural end of this cycle of Existence.)
The beings of Earth cheered as one—a thunderous, resounding holler that sounded the same in any language: a cry of pure joy.
Shiva-as-Nataraja nodded his head like a djinn granting a wish, and disappeared. The stars did their sky-wide dance once again, and the heavens shuffled back into their proper place. The unexpected twilight that had fallen upon the planet lifted, the familiar burning orb appeared in the clear blue sky—and Trickstertron, still chortling, turned its attention to Earth.